A Time and a Place
by the real snape
Summary: You-Know-Who is gone, the Baby-Who-Lives is with his foster parents. And being "second-in-command" has never been more stressful for Minerva. Then Muriel comes with a suggestion that seems to offer all the delights of control. Warning: consensual BD
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **Originally written for the HP_SSC fest. SSC being Safe, Consensual, and something starting with S I've forgotten. So yes, some sort of kink was mandatory, and this fic contains consensual bondage.

Tetleybag consented to beta, and because of that it's a much better tale.

Muriel Weasley carefully smoothed the soft satin, then folded the bonds loosely so as not to leave ugly creases. She straightened her back and picked them up from the bed. Now where … briefly, she hesitated. Then she put them into the top drawer of her bed table. There was a time and a place for everything. And at this particular time, the place was not _on top_ of the bed table. Not yet.

A time and a place for everything – it had been one of Robert's favourite sayings. And over the years, she had come to agree with her late husband; though usually in contexts that would have left him speechless with indignation, had she ever shared her thoughts.

She looked around the bedroom, mechanically smoothing a few wrinkles in the quilt that covered the bed. Her marital bed it had been, and so deliciously comfortable that she'd never considered getting a new one.

A time and a place …

For Robert, the time had been Saturday evening and the place that very bed. Like clockwork. As a young bride, Muriel had attempted, once or twice, to bring a tiny bit of romance, a hint of spontaneity to their sex life – or to _making love_, as she'd still called it then. The sofa in the living room. (There's a place for everything, my dear, and a time. What if the elves …) Wednesday evening. (You _know_ I have important meetings tomorrow. There's a time …) In the end, she had simply, and, above all, silently agreed. Yes, dear Robert, there _is_ a time and a place for everything, and a truly productive and well-focussed moment to draft a mental to-do-list for the next week is during …

She smiled. Tonight would be a time and a place for sex. Funny, that was. When she had learned to be outspoken enough to call it sex, there had finally been a reason to say _making love_.

Dear, wonderful, witty, brazen Griselda.

She had met her through Robert's work. "A charming and most helpful girl," he had first called her, "a bit older than you, I think." And I'm a woman, she had thought, and the mother of your children. But there was a time and a place for everything – except for comments like that.

"That hard-working young teacher at Hogwarts," was what he called Griselda next. But by the time Muriel first met her, at some Ministry Christmas do, she had become "that rather outspoken Marchbanks woman the Undersecretary seems to think so highly of – I can't see why. All those changes she wants to make to the exams and the curriculum! Bold, she is. Brazen."

As far as Muriel was concerned, praise could go no higher. And they had hit it off just fine during that evening.

Yet, at first, she had mostly been jealous. Griselda had done what she should have done herself: she had carved out a career. Muriel had by then discovered that spending long days in the presence of two small persons who were incapable of stringing a sentence together and half the time didn't manage the word _potty_ in a timely manner was not how she wanted to live her life. She loved her children dearly. They were her pride and joy. She would have enjoyed seeing them grow up, being involved in schoolwork and education, and playing with them in the evenings, weekends, and holidays. In short, she would have made a great father.

Muriel had always comforted herself with two thoughts: first, that it was impossible for women to have a _real_ career, a _real_ position of power; second, that she wanted children more. Griselda had been the living proof that her first thought was a lie. If Muriel didn't have a career, and Griselda did, then Muriel simply didn't have what it took. A painful idea.

And yes, she had wanted children. In those days, she had often thought that if she'd met one of those Muggle-tale "faeries" who offered her a different life, with a splendid career _but_ with the provision that in that life her children wouldn't exist, she would have chosen her own life all over again. She would have. Really.

No.

It was Griselda who had taught her to say that 'no' out loud, with only a minimal amount of guilt. "And that's what I'd call a _normal_ amount of guilt for any parent," Griselda had added. "Every parent feels at some point that he or she should have been more available or less interfering ... less permissive or more interested, or less judgemental …

"All you can do, my dear, (and it's precisely what you did do) is try to be as good a parent as possible. I'm quite sure that you've only ever done what you thought was _best_ for those boys."

Well, that, at least, had been true enough. And the boys had done just fine – each in his own way. Good boys, they were. And in a way, they had brought her and Griselda together. A year after that first meeting, it had been. At the next Ministry Christmas do. Griselda had sidled up to her at the buffet table.

"So your boys are both at Hogwarts now? That is, I don't think they have younger siblings?" she had asked. That was true, and Muriel had relished the blessed alone-time this brought her. Was still relishing it. But more and more, she had realised that with quite so many empty hours in the day, life was boring.

"Yes," she had replied, feeling a bit disappointed. Griselda, surely, might have seen her as _Muriel_, not as The-Mother-Of?

"Good. I've a job for you. Sort of. The thing is, they need a new member on the Hogwarts Board of Governors. And Dumbledore and I – you know Dumbledore?"

"Yes, the boys are in Gryffindor – he's the Head of House, isn't he?"

"Quite. Brilliant chap. I was present at his O.W.L.'s. Utterly brilliant. High-flyer. Well, we both feel that some things should change – and we could do with a bit of support on the Board. You'd do a good job, I dare say."

"Well … It's very kind, but I'm not sure …," That was not what _she_ wanted to say, Muriel had realised. It was what Robert wanted her to say. There was a place for women, in Robert's mind. It was at home.

"Actually, I'd love it."

"You think Robert could be a bit of a problem?"

Griselda's directness had taken her breath away.

"Let me handle that. Or rather, let Albus deal with it. He's over there."

Muriel had followed Griselda's nod. Dear Henri, she thought. That boy should become a writer. His description of Professor Dumbledore in last week's letter home had been spot-on. _He looks like the decoration on a girl's birthday cake_, Henri had written. _All sparkling and all the _wrong_ colours. No chap would want to wear it. But he's still a good teacher. Strict, but not so that you mind. Well, mostly we don't mind. It's a bit of a nuisance, sometimes. _A girl's birthday cake – yes. And somehow, though for the life of her she couldn't have said why, Henri was right about the natural authority as well.

Griselda had moved over to Dumbledore. Later during that evening, Dumbledore had talked earnestly – but with an occasional twinkle in his eyes – to Robert. Back at home, Robert had said rather pompously that there might be changes ahead. Professor Dumbledore had asked him – and asking him first was a very proper way of doing things – for his permission to approach Muriel for a place on the Board of Governors.

"And of course, I do not mind in the least. Truly womanly work, it is. They could do with a woman's touch. A woman's understanding of children – so natural. And we should take an interest in Hogwarts, now that the boys are there. It's the duty of every Pureblood Wizard and Witch …," Robert had gone into oratory mode. Muriel had barely been able to contain herself. That Professor Dumbledore – a high-flyer, indeed. Someone who could push Robert's every button like that …

And she had joined the Board. Enjoyed the work thoroughly, frustrating though it sometimes was to deal with all those conservative, elderly men. Struck up a friendship with Griselda, which had led first to informal chats during breaks, then to chats after the meetings, then to lunches. And to some confidences, but Griselda had been rather reticent on her private life. Muriel, who had by then realised that a professional woman was not necessarily a prim, proper, and virginal spinster, had been downright curious. Finally, she had gone for the straightforward approach and had asked Griselda whether there was … someone significant. Griselda liked straightforward, after all. But, as Muriel had found out that afternoon, it was the only _straight_ thing she liked. Not that they'd used that term, way back when. 'Unnatural tendencies' was how it was referred to, and "I prefer women, but there isn't anyone right now," was what Griselda had said, with an outward composure only belied by the unnatural whiteness of her knuckles as she held her glass.

Muriel had responded with broadmindedness, since broadmindedness was clearly the correct answer if she wanted to keep their friendship intact. After all, it was an act of enormous trust for Griselda to talk about her … inclinations. Later, at home, she had been surprised at her own discomfort. It had taken weeks of mind-searching and painful honesty to reach an answer. She hadn't been upset at the idea that Griselda might be interested in her. She had been upset at the idea that Griselda might _not_ be – make that _was not _– interested in her. Or she, Muriel, would have noticed, wouldn't she?

How wrong she had been.

In Griselda's experienced hands, she had learned about making love. And about sex. She had learned to know her own body and Griselda's. She had learned to give and to take pleasure. She had learned that an unnatural, non-maternal woman like herself could still be more than acceptable to others. In the end, she had learned to accept herself.

The great clock in the hall managed an asthmatic six strokes. Muriel looked up in surprise. Enough nostalgia, she decided. Time to prepare dinner. A very light dinner. Minerva would come at around seven. Her Owl had been as controlled as ever, but she, Muriel, knew how to read between the lines. Stressed, Minerva was.

The last year's stress, fear, bleak despair, and red-hot rage had all been common emotions. But since a week, it was over. You-Know-Who was gone. By now, everyone understood that he was truly gone. Everyone understood – well, not understood; it was beyond comprehension. But everyone _knew_ about The Boy Who Lived. The whole wizarding world had partied and danced and drunk away the stress. Poor old Dedalus had even Spelled it away – what part of "Secrecy" was it he didn't understand? But in the general relaxation, even he'd got off without a Wizengamot hearing. Yet amidst all the revelry and relaxation, Minerva was stressed.

What she'd need was a drink first. Then, a calm, light dinner, during which she could talk. Min needed to get the cause of that surprising stress out of her system. After dinner, coffee. And perhaps – it would depend on how clear-headed Minerva still was, for Muriel had no use for a befuddled partner, not this evening – a glass of Ogden's Old. Then she would make her suggestion. Muriel was utterly convinced that tonight was the time and place. That it was what Minerva wanted. What she _needed_.

She went to the kitchen and started preparations. Slowly, by hand. She wanted the time to think. Minerva. So unexpected, it had been. And now it felt so logical, natural even.

She had been alone for quite some time after Griselda. And Robert.

Robert had been the first – a heart attack, completely unexpected. Griselda had been marvellous. Had kept her distance during the first, hectic week. After that, she'd been there. Just there. A companion for small talk, for silence. And, finally, for the things Muriel needed to say.

"I thought I'd grieve," she had told Griselda. "I ought to. I do _miss_ him – at the oddest moments. This morning, when I wanted to put on an old robe. Whenever I wore that, he said how beautiful it made me look; how lucky he was. And he really meant it. I missed him like hell, just because of seeing that robe.

"And yet, what I feel most right now isn't grief. It's … space." She had stretched out her arms to make the point. "Such space, all around me. No snatched moments of alone-time. Just endless space … room … silence. A calm silence. And yet there should be grief. He _was_ a good, loving husband. A great father. I failed him, far more than he ever failed me. And he never suspected, never stopped loving me. He deserves grief."

Griselda had held her, wordlessly, and she had felt utterly accepted.

It had been almost a year before Griselda had mentioned living together. And when she did, Muriel had realised, suddenly and piercingly, that she didn't want to _live_ with anyone any more. They had tried, oh, how they had tried. To find a workable compromise. To get back the joy there once was. In the end, it hadn't worked out. Griselda had left.

There had been grief then. Deep grief. Muriel had regretted the pain she'd caused Griselda, had missed her company, her lovemaking, and her wit. Had missed belonging with someone. But never, not for a moment, had she truly regretted her decision to live alone.

When Griselda had finally met someone else, Muriel had come as close to being happy for her as was possible. And she had tried very hard to be glad for Augusta, too – Merlin knew that woman deserved a bit of happiness, as much as, or even more than Griselda.

And then, years later, she'd noticed Minerva McGonagall. Really noticed her, not just as a capable Deputy, an excellent sparring partner in meetings, and fun company. One afternoon, during a dull reading of minutes, she had noticed her in a very physical way. _Dream on, _she had thought. _Years younger than you, and she'll want … what Griselda wanted. Everyone does – except you. _

Wrong again. About the age difference, to begin with. It was still a sensitive point with Muriel, but "I know what I want," Minerva had said. "I know your age. I know you crave solitude. So do I. But … I still … I _do_ want …,"

Somewhere during that speech – one of the rare ones which had lacked Minerva's usual, scholarly precision - hands had replaced words. _And the rest, as they say, is history, _Muriel thought, as she finished her preparations.

**A/N** Next week Sunday the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

"Merlin, this feels good," Minerva sighed as she stretched her legs towards the fire. She smiled at Muriel, a somewhat rueful smile. "Thanks for listening," she said.

"Nonsense. You needed to talk about it. And it _is_ an important subject, dammit. That boy saved all of our lives. At such a price. He may not know it yet, but that doesn't alter the facts. What he deserves is as happy a childhood as is possible under the circumstances. And if you think he won't have that …"

"He won't. I'm certain of it. Mind, there really is only one option other than Lily's sister. James was an only child; Sirius is the boy's Godfather; normally he'd be his guardian, but … I still can't believe he betrayed James. In spite of all the evidence, I still can't imagine … But there it is. Peter … the poor boy."

Minerva's voice thickened, and Muriel leaned over and briefly squeezed her shoulder in comfort. "And Remus is equally impossible," she nodded. "Can't possibly leave a baby with a werewolf. To think that you had one at Hogwarts! You could have knocked me down with a quill, Min. That certainly was … quite courageous … of Albus." Since Minerva so obviously admired Albus for it, and seemed to _like_ the creature as well, it was hardly the time and place to point out what the Board would have had to say about this – had Albus bothered to consult them.

"It was. He usually does the right thing. That's what makes it all so difficult. I've argued the case for Arthur and Molly until I was blue in the face. He's a fine man and a good father, that nephew of yours. Harry would be happy in that family. He would get used to the way other wizards treat him – and if he ever did get above himself because of it, that pack of older step-brothers would sort him out in no time. Nothing like the rough-and-tumble of a big family. But Albus won't see it.

"And I know that there's something behind it. Albus has a reason that he isn't telling me. And a part of me feels that, as usual, he _is_ right in what he does. But he doesn't _have_ the right."

"You've lost me there," Muriel said, surprised. Minerva had gone over all the options before – but this statement was new and startling.

"He _is_ right," Minerva explained, "because he has a reason for what he does. And he's always right – he's the most cunning strategic thinker I know. The only one who can beat me at chess. And that's it. That's just it. In a way, Albus is sacrificing a pawn. For the greater good, arguably. With the best intentions, I think. For some reason, he really believes that Lily's sister is not unsympathetic towards … our kind. But I can't stop thinking that Harry is a pawn in Albus's game. And I can't change it either.

"Muriel, please, help me to think of something else. I'll go mad turning in circles like this."

Talk about chess, Muriel thought. Was there ever a better opening gambit? She got up, took the bottle of Ogden's Old from the sideboard, and poured them both a small glass.

"There's something I'd like you to consider," she started, once she was back in her chair. "And there are two ways of asking. One is an evening of doubtful and nerve-wracking hints – skirting around each other for hours. The other way is utterly direct. Once, that worked best for me. I hope it does for you, too.

"First, I want you to know that you can say 'no' at any time. Just stop me, and I'll never mention it again."

Muriel saw the look of surprise in Minerva's eyes, the forming of a question on her lips.

"No, just let me say it. And say 'no' if that's what you want. You see, with Griselda – I told you about her – I sometimes enjoyed what is known as …"

Muriel took a deep breath.

"As 'bondage'. Consensual." She saw Minerva gasp and stiffen. As she had done herself, so many years ago. Hurriedly, she pressed on.

"We both enjoyed it. Found it liberating. Exciting. Not always, not as a standard way of making love, but sometimes. As one way of giving and receiving pleasure.

"She proposed it – she was, in many ways, more experienced than I. The first time, I wasn't even sure I'd really enjoy it. It had always seemed … odd. _Kinky_, as they say these days. But when she asked, I thought about it. And the thought turned me on. And …"

This is the important part, Muriel realised suddenly. Merlin, this is far more important than whether Min would like it or not … why didn't I realise how much her answer would mean to me? Still, now that I've gone this far, I must say it.

"And I trusted her. I knew that she would stop if I used the safe word. I even knew that she would stop if I forgot the safe word, and just said 'stop'. I knew that she'd know the difference between a role-play 'stop' and the real thing. I trusted her."

That was the bottom line, wasn't it? The thing she only fully understood now. How important it was to her that Minerva would trust her – to that extent. A 'no' would be about more than black silk bonds. Had it been like that for Griselda? Merlin, the courage it took.

"Would you think about it?"

At first, Minerva just stared at her. Then at her glass. Then at the fire. Then at Muriel again. "This is important to you, isn't it?" she finally asked.

"Yes. That is, it's something that I find … occasionally … a very … sensuous way of making love. And I think that you would enjoy it, too. If you don't want to, that's all right. It's not some deep, necessary craving. I've never really _missed_ it. But if you'd want it, too – and only then – it might be … lovely … to add it.

"The reason I mention this now … while you have so much on your mind, I mean; well, I think I know to some extent how you feel. I've had my share of feeling … powerless and forced. Sometimes claustrophobically so. And at times like that, it was so … liberating. I'd want you to have that experience."

"I see." Minerva picked up her glass, swirled its contents around. She took her time thinking, and Muriel was glad of it. This was not a decision to take loosely. Let Minerva, that unsurpassed chess-player, take all her time to weigh all the options, all the consequences. Let Minerva, that passionate, uninhibited lover, take all her time to visualise the idea, to feel her body respond – or not respond – to the images.

Muriel had never been interested in chess. Not for her, the thinking out of every move. When Griselda had first suggested using bonds, she had been shocked. Then surprised – for it was something for truly _weird_ people; but if Griselda liked it, then it wasn't _really_ weird, was it? Then she had imagined lying down on the bed, while Griselda tied her wrists to the bedpost. And she had felt a shiver of excitement run through her body. She had visualised the scene well and truly. _I'm getting wet_, she had thought, wonderingly. _I want this. I want to try this. _She had looked at Griselda. _With you_, she had realised. And without further ado, she had said 'yes'.

Would Minerva feel the same? She had come to Muriel expecting the evening to end in bed – more, to end making love. Relaxing love? Tender love? Long, lingering, sensuous love? Angry getting-the-stress-out-love? There had been that, occasionally, in the past, and it had made Muriel think that Minerva would enjoy … Please, let Min not be disgusted with the idea – with her, for suggesting it.

Finally, Minerva looked up. "How, precisely, does a safe-word work?" she asked.

Muriel smiled. How utterly Minerva to come with an almost academic question, while at the same time her eyes, the catch in her voice, even, betrayed ... interest, if now downright arousal. And Min didn't bother to hide that; she just still wanted answers.

"It's a word the one who's tied up uses when she wants to stop," Muriel explained. "But not 'stop' itself. You see, sometimes it can feel … good … to say 'stop', while you know that the other won't. When you don't really want to stop, that is. So there's a word – a completely unrelated word that you'd never use during sex, but that will mean 'stop'. Something like 'quill', or 'cleaning spell', or even 'Wizengamot'. I always use _Howler_." It should be a word you couldn't possibly forget.

"Hogwarts," Minerva answered at once. And that was a definite 'yes'. Muriel felt as if her whole body would explode with joy – but not at the idea of the pleasures to come. She remembered how Griselda had kissed her, deeply, hungrily, when she had agreed. That wasn't the anticipation, she realised, it wasn't about sex, it was about love – confidence – trust. This feels …

"Thank you," was all she said. Minerva looked at her with a mixture of awkwardness and expectancy. Clearly, she had been imagining, visualising, just as Muriel hoped she would. And the images had worked for her. It reminded Muriel of how she herself had felt, that never-forgotten day when Griselda had made her suggestion. After that spontaneous 'yes', Muriel had been speechless. What was the next step? "So let's tie each other up?" or "Please, take me?" or … For a few moments, the uncertainty had been ghastly. Then Griselda had taken her by the hand and had simply led her upstairs. And told her what to do. _And it's not as if I have anything better to offer, _she thought. _It worked for me. Please, let it work for Min. _

She took the now empty glass from Minerva's hand, put it on the table, and led her to the bedroom.

**A/N **You may feel that, in making you wait a whole week for the bit where it finally happens, I'm stretching _consensual_ beyond its limits. My dears, waiting can enhance pleasure. And while I wouldn't dream of _forcing_ you to leave reviews, it'll make the posting of the next chapter much more of a certainty …


	3. Chapter 3

Once there, they undressed, and to her surprise Muriel felt as nervous and insecure as the first time. Minerva hesitated, looking questioningly at Muriel, who slowly opened the drawer of the bed table.

A time and a place for everything …

As Muriel placed the five folded pieces of silk on the bedside table, she curtly told Minerva to undress. Muriel did so herself, keeping her underwear on, as always when she was dominating. She found that being partly clothed with someone who was fully naked helped significantly in creating the right power balance. She had also found out, to her surprise at the time, that wearing tight corsets did wonderful things for her own libido – as long as she had a _very_ light dinner first. And as she grew older, a corset did rather wonderful things for her cleavage and waistline, as well. It wasn't just the tight hug of the satin, the light pressure of the whalebones – it was knowing she looked her damn best that gave her a thrill.

She secretly hoped that Minerva would further develop her already excellent taste in lingerie as well.

When Minerva noted the midnight-blue corset her eyes widened in surprise. "Merlin!" she whispered. Muriel, who had known even as a young girl that her shoulders and décolleté were among her strongest points, drew herself up just so and enjoyed the effect. Min's hands were trembling, she noted, and her breath quickened. And – that was something to be nipped in the bud _at once_ – she had stopped undressing herself. Really completely uncertain about what to do or what to expect, she was, Muriel realised. A novel experience indeed, for someone who had 'Capability' for a middle name. And now Minerva was in such unchartered territory that she could but followed Muriel's lead. Which was not a bad place to start, of course.

"Undress completely!" she ordered. "And lie down."

Minerva gasped.

"And don't speak!" Muriel added. She was not a Legilimens, never had been. But at that moment, she could almost literally see the words forming in Minerva's head. _I'm the one who'll be bound? But … you said … when you feel tied down and powerless, it's so liberating … _Liberating!/i To be tied down even more? I'll … I'll …/i

So that was what had caused those flushed cheeks when Muriel made her suggestion. Minerva's interpretation had been that, when you feel tied down and powerless in real life, it would be so liberating to be totally in charge in a role play – to be the one who called the shots. Being Dom brought its own burden of responsibilities, of course, but to Min that was clearly self-evident. All she had thought of was the delightful experience of not being _second_ in command. An experience all the more delightful since there wouldn't be any stress involved: nothing more important to decide than when exactly she would allow Muriel to come. The idea that she'd have to follow orders came as quite a shock – Muriel, who had learned to read Min's face, saw that being at someone's beck and call yet again wasn't her idea of a good time. Then this was the moment where she might refuse.

_And when you look at it like that, she's right,_ Muriel mused. _She's so clearly cut out for the top job , it's almost an insult to offer her another subservient position – for that's how she sees this now. _

But then Minerva drew herself up. She had said 'yes', to what was clearly an important request for her, Muriel, and she'd have to give it a try, at least. With pursed lips, with the curt, deft movements that had always warned Muriel – but, strangely enough, not the other Board Members – of trouble ahead, Minerva undressed completely, folded her underclothes with military precision, and stretched out on the bed as a stone effigy on a tomb.

It took all of Muriel's willpower not to smile.

"Lift your head," she ordered, taking the thickest of the five rolls – the one with the quilted eye pads. Now, there was proof that looks _couldn't_ kill. Almost a pity to cover that fierce Gryffindor Glare. But Minerva would find it much easier to reach complete abandonment when she couldn't see Muriel, and this was about giving _Min_ pleasure. There would be a time and a place for other varieties.

When she had tied the eye pad to her satisfaction, Muriel ordered Minerva to stretch out her arms. Two more pieces of silk secured them firmly against the bedposts. Muriel, who was now at liberty to smile as much as she wanted, took a moment to observe Minerva's still body. Every inch of it expressed the unspoken wish to be done with it quickly – so that Min could say that, after all, it wasn't her thing. Without feeling that she'd gone back on her word.

"Lie still."

Muriel waited, intentionally, full of gleeful anticipation, for the change in Minerva's breath. Amazing self-control, Min had … but there it was! A slight quickening, the not-fully-breathing-in that came from tension, uncertainty, and then, arousal. Finally, Muriel moved.

One slow, tentative finger.

Tracing an erratic path from Minerva's cheek to her jaw, to her shoulder, down her inner arm and up again, stopping just as Minerva expected her to move towards her breast. Muriel could practically feel Min's eyelids flutter behind the pads. Where next? What next?

Little puffs of breath, like a cool breeze.

On Min's hips, on her belly, finally on each breast … but not nearly enough for what she wanted. And couldn't – wouldn't – ask for. _You still feel in control,_ Muriel thought. _You're enjoying it; you find it sensuous, indeed. But you still feel in control._

Slowly, she brought her mouth nearer, let Minerva feel its closeness. And … yes! Minerva did try, with a very deep breath, to breach the distance between her nipple and Muriel's mouth. _Oh, no, you don't!_

"Lie still, I said."

Two fingers now.

Fingers that didn't even go near a breast. Fingers that drew patterns on Min's belly, on her loins, on her outer thighs, on her calves, circling and tracing till her whole body quivered. And those tiny ripples were completely involuntary indeed. _Your body's taking over. You're losing control – slowly but certainly you're losing it._

"Not a move, not a sound."

Two fingers trailing up. Knees, thighs, belly, finally breast. Minerva's deep, quivering breath. But it was breathing out, not breathing in, not trying to control. _Good girl_.

Fingers on Min's nipple, teasing, caressing, sometimes one finger, sometimes two. A second hand for a second breast. Minerva's head, leaning back on the pillow, the lines of neck and jaw speaking of utter abandonment. _Oh, but you're enjoying yourself. You think you know now what it's all about, and you're eagerly waiting for your reward. _Bring on the orgasm, Madam is ready to be served._ Not so. _

A pinch.

Unexpected, in both nipples.

Hard enough to hurt.

A gasp, a movement of the torso, the hips.

Muriel straightened her back, stood, and waited. Waited for Minerva to make her choice.

Uncertainty, or control.

Obedience, or control.

Lust, or control.

_This is where she realises. Where she understand that she has the absolute power of the safe word. Where she knows that this time, she can _choose_ to give up control. Freely. Willingly. Completely. Because she wants to. Because she needs the release of utter abandonment. Liberation. This is where she chooses liberation._

Or not. Muriel might have been completely wrong about Minerva, might have taken far much for granted, relied too much on her own feelings.

And if Minerva said "Hogwarts", what on earth would they say next?

Muriel realised that she had held her breath when she couldn't get enough air in. Damned corset. She gasped – several quick intakes of oxygen. So much for being Dom. Min might not be able to see, but she could certainly hear. She could, allegedly, hear the folding of an illicit note across a full classroom, leave alone Muriel's frantic gasping.

And then, at last, Minerva rested her arms against the bedposts, relaxed her body.

"Please," she whispered, and slightly, almost imperceptively, opened her legs. Do what you want, it meant. Where you want.

Complete submission.

But still, a word. And a movement.

Muriel picked up the fourth tie from the bedside table.

"Cross your ankles."

She tied them firmly together, just this side of painful. That would put an end to Minerva's ideas of a quick climax.

"If you speak, if you move, I'll leave you like that."

And then, with cruel precision, a finger on the little triangle of dark hair.

Soft pressure.

The smallest of circular movements.

Min, with a hint of a smile at first, then concentrating, focussing. Existing only not to move, not to speak, not to buck towards that finger, not to move but just feel not move not move just feel just –

Not come. No finger. Nothing. Just a body on a bed in the dark.

Nothing.

Yet, perfect stillness. _Well done, my dear._

"Good."

Slowly, Muriel untied the ankles. They stayed crossed. _Now that you've chosen submission, you can't help but excel at it._ She took one slender ankle and slowly moved the leg sideways. She tied it to a bed post. The other leg stayed in position. _That's my girl._

Slowly, she walked around the bed, ensuring her footsteps were audible.

The other ankle.

The other bedpost.

The slow walk back, stopping halfway.

Muriel leaned heavily on the footboard, wanting for Minerva to know that she was there watching her. Admiring what she saw – yes, Min would know that, too, and it would arouse her beyond anything. And Min would expect, hope, and wait for those fingers to return. Wait confidently, knowing how much Muriel wanted her, how exited Muriel had to be.

Minerva was right, of course.

And wrong.

"You look beautiful. I've never seen your nipples that taut. Those endless legs … and then, all pink and wet …"

It was as Muriel had expected. Min visibly clamped, a silent plea for the release of Muriel's fingers. Not a word, not a sound, just that tiny movement.

Still, movement.

"You'll regret that."

Silence. Anticipation. The thrill of fear. Verging on real fear, made pleasurable by trust.

_Oh, no, my girl, I'm not as predictable as that. Never was one for whips or paddles. Just voice. Power. _

Muriel climbed on the bed, positioned herself against the footboard, one leg each side of Minerva's legs, her feet touching Minerva's thighs. My, but those legs _were_ endless.

A finger up Minerva's leg, halfway up her inner thigh. Not a quiver, this time.

Another finger, on the other leg.

Muriel leaned over – with an effort she'd feel the next day, but worth it, oh, so worth it – and let both fingers join, so briefly that it was the mere suggestion of a touch.

Perfect stillness. _Good. Very good. Worth a reward. My fair little teacher, would you give yourself an 'Outstanding' for that performance? Or would modesty command you to settle for 'Exceeds Expectations'? You certainly exceed mine – but 'Hogwarts' is where this stops. A safe word, not a reality. Your only reality is this body, on this bed, in this darkness. Now listen – that's all you can do._

"It's what you want, I know it. Not a word. Then you might get it – eventually."

Muriel settled herself comfortably, knees slightly drawn up, feet still firmly against Min's body.

"Feel free to wriggle," she suggested. "It's not as if you can do anything for yourself, not really, not like I can … But remember, not a sound!"

A few seconds, to let Min get it wrong, to make her think that Muriel meant: 'not like I can do for you'.

Then Muriel slowly began to touch herself, letting her breath quicken audibly, letting her legs quiver, and giving herself every freedom of noise and movement in the world. Grinning briefly at the moment when Minerva realised what was going on.

She watched Minerva strain at her bonds as she realised that, as ready as she was, as close as she came , she would not find release until Muriel allowed her. Min's back arched, her muscles tensed – but the voice moaning "yes ... yes..." was Muriel's.

Finally, after a most satisfactory orgasm – "Thank you, love, you were _such_ a pleasure to watch" – Muriel got up. Briefly, she steadied herself against the bedpost. _And now it's your turn, love._

"Last chance. You've been good. I'll allow you noise. But not a move, not a word!"

Fingers tracing patterns, finding a nipple, two nipples; teasing, pinching.

Breathing that quickened, turned ragged, turned into a low, needy keening.

One hand sliding down, fingers that touched, caressed, probed.

A thumb that replaced the fingers.

Keening changing into small cries.

A thumb rubbing in small circles, and finally two fingers sliding in – sliding in so easily – pumping, scissoring.

And then Minerva's hands grasping the bonds, her body arching, her mouth one great cry, louder than Muriel had ever heard, and her muscles clamping down as she came. Long, hard, endless.

A cry that quieted to ragged breaths, half sob and half exhilarated laughter.

*****  
One day, Muriel thought, as she watched Min in the deep sleep of the utterly exhausted, one day, sometime soon, perhaps, I'll want it from you. I'll want you to set me free. You'll do it – because you'll feel you can't refuse, not after what I gave you. You'll gather that Gryffindor courage yet again, and you'll do it. And that, my darling girl, is when you'll learn what _taking_ someone, well and truly _taking_ someone means. And what it feels like.

Someday soon.

There's a time and a place for everything.

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed this story. Next week, a T-rated tale featuring Minerva, Pomona and Griselda in a story about the Imperius-curse Minerva casts in DH.


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